


john watson <3 rugby

by mistyzeo



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Rugby
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-20
Updated: 2011-02-20
Packaged: 2018-10-16 01:38:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 742
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10561222
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mistyzeo/pseuds/mistyzeo
Summary: for thegameison_sh february challenge: "love"





	

John Watson loved many things, and he loved them easily. He loved milk in his tea, since it had been scarce in Afghanistan and it was plentiful in England. He loved the Scottish countryside, having traveled there every summer to visit his parents’ parents. He loved dogs, but mostly the medium sized ones, not the little yappy ones or the great jumping-on-you-knock-you-down ones, because they were clever and loyal and liked to have their bellies rubbed. He loved Sherlock, but that was a confusing, tangle of emotions that he didn’t entirely want to examine too closely just yet, so early in their friendship.  
  
But his first love (well, perhaps that was a bit much: his first love had been seahorses at the age of six), his longest abiding love was Rugby. He’d played Wing at Blackheath when he was still a med student, and he’d been damn good, too. He wasn’t quite as fast anymore, but he could still keep up with a lanky, fit, consulting detective at a full run, so he wasn’t counting it as too much of a loss. That, or he’d been freakishly fast at twenty-two.  
  
Now the only way he could get anywhere near the rush of playing in a match was by kicking Sherlock off the couch when it was on the telly instead. Sherlock bitched and moaned at the injustice, made a hazardous mess in the kitchen in retaliation, and John allowed himself not to care for an hour and a half. John imagined he could smell the air on the pitch, and it didn’t smell like weird experiments and Sherlock’s expensive shampoo: it smelled like sweat and dirt and late autumn air, like excitement and focus and plastic water bottles. He remembered the way his jersey reeked no matter how many times he washed it, and the feeling of his socks pulled up to his knees. He remembered the thrill of sidestepping a tackle, darting out of the way just in time and pelting on, ball tucked snug under his arm.  
  
Sherlock didn’t even know what he was getting into when he opened an envelope from a client one time and sighed, “Oh hell, she’s paid me in tickets.”  
  
“Tickets to what?” John asked from the doorway, hanging up his coat.  
  
“Rugby match,” Sherlock said, throwing them down on the table. “England is playing Wales in a month.”   
  
John approached the table slowly, almost unbelieving. “Sherlock, you’ve got to be kidding.”  
  
“Oh that’s right,” Sherlock said, in the kitchen now, “you like Rugby, don’t you.”  
  
“Er,” John said, peering at the tickets. There were two of them, all shiny and crisp peeking out of the envelope. If he picked them up, they might disappear.  
  
“What’s the matter?” Sherlock asked, poking his head back into the sitting room. “You want to take them?”  
  
“These seats are right below the royal box,” John said, suddenly breathless. “Sherlock, these are the most expensive seats you can get.”  
  
“Oh, good. So you want to go, then.”  
  
“Of course I do! Are you mad?”  
  
“I thought I’d give them to Lestrade.”  
  
“You are mad,” John said, but when he turned around Sherlock was grinning. “Oh piss off,” he said, but it didn’t carry any heat. Being teased by Sherlock was a bit like being indulged by a tiger, and John also loved danger.  
  
“You’ll have to explain it to me,” Sherlock said, flinging himself onto the sofa and lifting an eyebrow in John’s direction.  
  
“Yes,” John agreed, scrambling for his laptop. “Yes, of course. Are you busy right now? Because this’ll take a while. I played after university, you know.”  
  
“I know,” Sherlock said. “Scars on your knees; the one on your upper lip; your dislocated shoulder.”  
  
“How’d you know about that?”  
  
“It’s the other shoulder from the one that got shot.”  
  
“That’s not― never mind.” John pushed Sherlock to the side and opened the laptop. “You actually want to learn something new that’s not relevant to a case?”  
  
“It might be relevant in the future,” Sherlock said, noncommittally. He stretched his long arms over his head and then lay them along the back of the couch, thumb just brushing the back of John’s twice-dislocated shoulder.  
  
“Right then,” John said, flustered.  
  
“Are we going to watch the video of you getting absolutely murdered by that fellow from Richmond?”  
  
“Shut up and let me explain,” John said, “and then you’ll tell me where you found that video, you scheming prat.”


End file.
